His hand flew across the paper. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. They did not have to wait long.
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